Choices of the Chosen One
by Medusa Davenport
Summary: Different moments that shaped Hawke and Fenris' romance.  At long last, A Bitter Pill is up with some gratification for you beloved readers.  Guest appearances by party members, especially Varric and Isabela.
1. Reason and Rationale

**Author's Note:** This story takes place three years after the final battle in Dragon Age: 2. For the sake of simplicity, this is a default Hawke: black hair, blue eyes, pale skin, name of Marian. It is mentioned that her hair has gotten longer, which I think is a reasonable expectation after three years on the run from Mages and Templars alike.

**_Warnings:_** There is no actual smut, but this chapter takes place while Hawke and Fenris are lying naked in bed. This is an incredibly complex and serious Hawke with a myriad of complex emotions and motivations that boil down to, at simplest, a mage afraid of her own powers. And while this chapter doesn't have it, the next one will- it's a frame story, meaning that the game storyline will be revealed in flashbacks (just like the game). I intend to fill in more of the blank spaces than to sit there reliving and rewriting every word the characters say on-screen.

_Disclaimer_: Right now, I'm not on the staff of writers that BioWare hired for Dragon Age. Give me a year or two and that might change. For now, of course, I don't own these characters and I don't profit off of them in a monetary sense.

"_Eventually we all had to leave the Champion's side… except Fenris, of course."_

-Varric

**I.**

Fenris rolls to his side, lean muscles glowing with the faint light of his tattoos, staring into her eyes with a satiated, half-lidded expression. Marian Hawke— Champion of Kirkwall, wanted apostate, and sought after by the Chantry, Templars, and former Circles of Magi alike—has to give the man credit for looking at her face rather than her bare chest. Then again, she can tell by his intent gaze that he has something pressing to ask her. Something she doubts she wants to answer.

He trails the calloused tips of his slender elf fingertips over her stomach, stroking from the bottom of her ribs to just beneath her navel, back and forth without straying too far in either direction. It never ceases to amaze her that in three years since the Mage Revolt began, he has become almost addicted to physical contact—not just for sex, but for the gentle intimacy a simple touch provides. She finds his hand at the small of her back when they step through doors, his fingers weaving through hers as they walk together, or his shoulder pressing against hers when they find that rare cart to ride in.

Marian melts into the odd warmth of his green eyes, lying back with her shoulders cradled in his other arm. The soothing motions lull her and she smiles at him with soft lips, no teeth.

"Why did you do it?" he murmurs. Like a whip, the words snap that peace away. Of course he got her comfortable and warm, too worn out and too satisfied from their lovemaking to resist him.

She knows full well what he means, but she asks nonetheless, "Do what?"

"Hawke," he says, using her last name with that tone of his—the way he said it years ago as they wandered Kirkwall in the dead of night killing bandits, a single sharp syllable that traps her. His palm flattens against her belly, rough edges against soft skin, and he turns so that he is almost over her, looming with only his shoulders and shadow to keep her in place.

Marian sighs. After a few years away from Kirkwall, she stopped thinking of herself as Hawke. Of course she still answers to it. Always. Her entire adult life, she's been known as Hawke to friends and even family. Her father used to tell her as a child that it was because she embodied their name so well: 'like a soaring predator, noble and graceful and that much deadlier because of it.'

"Why has it taken you so long to ask?" she says. She knows how evasive her reply is and can see the flash in Fenris' eyes—not irritation, but frustration. Concern and anxiety.

He grunts. "You know me well enough," he answers, the hand leaving her stomach to cup her cheek. The backs of his knuckles graze along her cheekbone and she turns toward his touch: he has the cool skin all elves seem to have laced with that humming heat of lyrium just beneath.

She closes her eyes, just for a moment. "Why did I turn on my own kind? How could I help the Templars with their Rite of Annulment?" she says, echoing questions she has heard from all the others over the years— the question that died on Anders' lips as she plunged the bladed edge of her staff through his chest. Her eyes open to see his face still there, the fine bones under the smooth tan she never tires of looking at, and the faint frown that knits his dark brows together as he watches her.

Fenris nods, a short jerk of his chin toward his collarbones. She reaches up and traces one, the delicate arch at his throat that extends in a line toward his shoulder. A line of lyrium crosses his skin just above the clavicle, the thrum of magic singing at her touch. His eyes close; both can feel how that simple brush of fingers draws the Fade close, how the air around their naked bodies warms with a rush of magical energy. Just as the subconscious spell weaves through them, he grasps her wrist and pulls her hand away. Green eyes open and his fingers tighten around her fragile bones. Before the pressure can hurt her, he presses his lips to the pulse there and she relaxes into his hold.

"You know how I feel about blood magic," she whispers.

Fenris shifts again, relinquishing his intimidating posture, releasing her wrist to reach across her and pull her onto her side, facing him. Her bare legs tangle with his. Once it had been the fear she might wake up alone, but now the gesture has grown to be instinct, one he matches without hesitation.

He stares at her and she knows that he awaits her answer, knows that he knows she has more to say on the matter. With a reluctant sigh, she continues, "I used it, once." Fenris blinks, withdrawing his chest from hers for a moment. Guilty, she presses on, "I didn't mean to. It just… happened."

She takes a breath, remembering. "Bethany and I knew the same spells. Perhaps I was a bit stronger, being the oldest and all, but my spells should not have been able to affect that ogre if hers didn't. She cast flames at him and he resisted them." She shivers. In that moment, she knew fear. Real fear, imminent death. "When that—that beast picked her up and beat her to death, I saw her blood flying and something came over me. I can't describe it. I saw every drop of my sister's blood and it was as though I saw every moment of our lives draining away, flung to the ground."

The elf leans close again, the lean planes of his chest pressing against her breasts. His arms wind around her back, fingers twisting in the hair that falls loose to her shoulders.

Bolstered by his tenderness, Marian continues. "I did not mean to do it. I didn't even realize what I was doing," she says. "I felt power flowing into me and I thought it was fury, grief, and fear. I felt the power of her death fill me and I unleashed it. I tore that thing in half. Literally. Carver told me after, in the ship, that I looked different. That her blood flew at me and covered my face and hands and that it glowed as I killed the ogre."

Fenris stares at her with sorrow in his green eyes, moving one hand from her hair to caress her cheek again. "I never knew," he says, his low voice quiet, little more than a whisper. Still, she can see the wary flicker in his gaze.

"Once I realized what it was, I was terrified. I worked for Athenril almost four months without casting a single spell. It became… dangerous. Carver taught me to use a dagger, just a small blade, but I never had much aptitude. And when I tried to stop using magic, the dreams came." Marian stops speaking and shudders, recalling the demons that plagued her every night.

He watches her without speaking, but his arms tighten around her. One of his hands slides to the back of her head, tucking her face against his neck. The warmth of his tattoos hums against her skin and she closes her eyes, comforted by his embrace.

"I have always know where my hatred of magic comes from," he whispers, after several minutes lying like that. She opens her eyes and raises her face to look at him, seeing his steady gaze on her face. "I accepted yours, saw it as strength. But I have never sought to understand it."

"I know what it feels like to have something inside of you, something that lives whether you will it to or not," she whispers. "I cannot say whether or not I hate magic—I cannot hate something that is such a part of me and who I am. But I fear it. I know the danger of it, and I fear it. I never want to become one of those mages like the apostates in Kirkwall. I see every day how easy it would be, and I would sooner die."

Fenris stares into her face for a long moment. "You are stronger than that," he says, his voice and gaze fierce. He hugs her, his grip so tight she wonders for a moment if her bones will break. "You have strength that few mages have, and the power to defeat those weaker than you, no matter the evil means they seek."

"Am I?" she murmurs against his shoulder, her troubled gaze staring at the scuffed wall of their room in the inn. "Am I all that you believe me to be?"

His long form shifts, rolling to pin her beneath him. One of his hands braces against the headboard and she reaches up, fingers curling around the hard muscles of his forearm and the lyrium brands woven throughout. "I would not be here if I doubted you," he answers, bending to trail his lips up her neck. Hot breath against her earlobe sends shivers tingling through every cell of her. "But I am happy to demonstrate my loyalty if you doubt me."

She smiles as he leans back to stare at her, his free hand drawing her hips against his. "I don't doubt your loyalty any more," she answers, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing him close. Her back arches, her eyes close and their chests press close again. She can feel the tips of his white hair brushing her face and opens her eyes, eager to drink in the sight of him. "But your demonstrations are always welcome."

Fenris pulls back, however, rather than closer. Shadows underscore his cheekbones and lips and nose, emphasizing the carved flawlessness of his features. "But you doubted me once," he murmurs, sadness filling the brilliant green of his gaze.

Marian takes a breath, forcing her mind to focus on his words rather than the nearness of his body. She can feel his want, pressed hard and close, and more than the physical manifestation, she can sense it. Their closeness perhaps, or maybe the fact that his tattoos somehow connect with her magical abilities, has led them to an almost-psychic bond. While she cannot read his thoughts, not in any precise fashion, both can feel the other's emotions. Particularly the strong ones— like desire.

With a serious expression, she looks at him, her arms still wound around his neck, fingers twisting and digging through his soft hair. "You know that I did," she answers.

He sighs; it is not a conversation they enjoy or seek to have. Those three lonely years apart were among the worst for either of them. The elf has a stronger distaste for remembering that time than she does, and she feels his guilt rising in place of his manhood.

"Every time I saw it in your eyes," he says, touching her cheek and settling his weight so that most is on his side while his body remains over hers, "I felt fear as I had never known before. I would look at you and all I could do was to pray that you saw how much I feared losing you, how much I dreaded the thought that you doubted me or hated me. As much as I told myself that it was for the best, I could not help but to regret every moment I spent away from you."

She tips her face upward and brushes her lips against his, just a faint touch before she withdraws and stares at him. "I never hated you, much as I wished I could," she responds. "And every time I doubted you, you would look at me and I saw that I was a fool to doubt. It was as if you knew," a soft smile crosses her lips and she shakes her head against the pillow of his hand, "Though it sounds as if you did."

"Of course I did," he murmurs.


	2. Folgate

**A/N:** Okay, okay, I said I wasn't going to cover parts of the game and/or quote their dialogue and now look at my hypocritical butt. Flashback to the night that Fenris and Hawke met, through his eyes this time.

**Warnings:** Absolutely nothing dirty. Your six-year-old could read this if they had a high enough reading comprehension level. Is that something to warn people about? Yes, it was cheap of me to suck you into the first chapter with hints of sexiness. No, I'm not sorry.

Another note: The word 'folgate' is real. I found it in an old dictionary (like 70s/80s era Webster's) in high school, but now apparently Webster's doesn't remember it. Folgate means 'to emit sparks of lightning.' It seemed appropriate for a lightning spell, and I just love the damn word. I'm a word-nerd, what can I say?

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><p><em>"I am <em>not_ a slave!"_

-Fenris

**II.**

As he withdrew his hand from the slaver's chest and turned, Fenris had a sensation of larger things shifting around him, as if the universe itself had taken a great breath and waited, poised, for his reaction. His eyes fell on the small group behind him, splattered with Hunters' blood and bruised from their encounter.

He recognized the guard's uniform on the red-haired woman as she lowered her shield to defend against him, heard the hairy-chested dwarf flick some catch on his crossbow, and smelled the faint twinge of sweat as the dark-haired young man reached for the claymore on his back. In spite of all of them, Fenris found himself staring at the young woman who seemed to lead the group as she raised one hand and her companions lowered their weapons. She dressed in a simple teal robe that would have been bright, had the piercing blue of her eyes not outshone the fabric.

For a moment, he was lost in her eyes, helpless, only able to perceive that impending change as he realized that _she_ was the change.

"I apologize," he began, collecting his thoughts. He couldn't seem to stop staring at the woman, so he walked around her, to the body of the man he'd just killed. "When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the Hunters, I had no idea they'd be so… numerous."

"You were responsible for all this?" she asked him, brows rising to hide beneath the messy dark hair that fell into her eyes as one hand swept out to indicate the corpses littering the Alienage ground.

He shifted, uncomfortable. "I'm the reason you're here, yes," he answered. It felt as if the change loomed heavy overhead and he felt his heart quicken against his armor. "My name is Fenris," he pressed on, explaining the Imperial bounty hunters before he realized how dangerous it was to share such information with a stranger. He cut himself off by saying, "Thankfully Anso chose wisely."

The sense of the universe shifting grew dizzying as he stared into her eyes. What was he thinking to say all of those things? To be polite, even flattering her prowess in battle?

"If they were trying to recapture you, then I'm happy I helped," she said.

Fenris felt his eyes widen. Who was this woman? "I have met few in my travels who have sought anything other than personal gain." He was unable to hold his tongue around her. What sort of power did she exercise over him? Without meaning to, his eyes swept to take in the curves her robe revealed, the straight nose and soft, unpainted lips.

She asked him questions about himself, about his master and his markings, and he answered her without a second thought. He couldn't resist asking her about the chest, wondering if it might contain something—some clue as to Danarius' power, or a weapon that might defeat him—but she told him it was empty. Before he knew it, he had asked her to help him charge into Danarius' mansion and she had agreed.

As he jogged through Lowtown's narrow streets, keeping to the shadows, he felt a giddy fluttering in his chest. In later years when he recalled that night, he would wonder if that was how normal men felt the first time a woman they fancied accepted an offer of a drink or a walk together. That night, however, Fenris assumed that it was bloodlust he felt. He focused on imagining the look of shock and pain in Danarius' eyes and the wet pop of the magister's heart in his hand. But for some reason, he kept picturing that woman's serious blue gaze.

Even as he led them into the mansion, filled with shades and demons that Danarius had summoned, Fenris felt her eyes against his back. He shoved any thought of her from his mind as he kicked open doors and slashed through spirits. As they reached the master suite, monsters materialized in every corner of the room. Fenris whirled to face them and saw, for one second, the expression on the young woman's face. Her blue eyes glowed with unholy light, her hands raised toward the ceiling, and he saw electricity arcing up the length of her arms, coiling around the wood of her staff.

"Folgate," she muttered, the word taking a vicious twist in her teeth. The pressure of the air changed, making his sensitive ears pop; Fenris heard the hum of power and felt the lyrium in his veins sing in the presence of powerful magic.

He vaulted the balcony and landed in a cluster of abominations, slashing his sword through several even as more hurried toward him. There was no way to kill them all, he was about to be overwhelmed before he could even find Danarius, and then lightning filled the room. Several of the spirits nearest him exploded in showers of blue-lit dust, their misty forms crackling with electricity.

"Face me," cried a strong, fearless voice with a heavy Fereldan accent. A shield with an emblem of the Viscount's Seal arced through the shades nearest him and Fenris glanced over to see the guardswoman, her feet braced, her long sword snapping out from behind the cover of her shield to slash the monsters as they turned toward her with their inhuman hunger. He spun his sword through one after another, finding his way through the crowd so that he stood back-to-back with the guard. From time to time he heard the high-pitched whine of a crossbow bolt, followed by the thunk-hiss of it hitting its mark.

The last of their little cluster of foes fell away and Fenris turned to look around the room, to see what other monsters might be waiting. A trio of shades in the far corner started toward him and he raised his blade, prepared to strike, when a blast of fire carved through them. He straightened as they dissipated, looking at the wreckage of the mansion, and felt a wave of despair crash over him.

Danarius was long gone.

The blue-eyed woman walked down the stairs, her robes sweeping against the steps, and he faced her for a moment. He didn't know what he muttered even as he said it—something about taking the treasure as payment and Danarius wasn't there—but he knew he needed to leave. Everything about the place screamed Danarius, from the heavy dark velvet of the drapes and the horrific paintings of torture and death. Even the smell, of blood and wine and orichalcum, was the smell of Tevinter to Fenris. The scent of his former master.

"I… need some air," he finished, turning and stalking outside with stiff steps. As he walked out, he glimpsed a reflection of the room behind him in a broken shard of glass. He saw the guard and the dwarf exchange glances behind their leader, who stood staring after him with her shaggy dark hair falling across her brilliant eyes.

The ghost of their reflections faded from his mind as he stepped outside, slumping against the wall and gulping in air. Danarius was gone. All the monstrous defenses the magister had erected were no more than a deadly ruse. Even from wherever he was, Danarius had his claws in deep. The lyrium hadn't just marked his skin: it had marked _him_, his mind and heart and even his soul. The only solution was to kill his former master. The only way he could ever be free was to find that bastard and crush his heart into a wet pulp. Fenris shuddered, folding his arms over his chest and leaning his head back against the ivy.

He heard the scrape of the heavy door being drawn open but didn't bother to look around just yet.

"—careful of this one, Hawke," he heard the alto murmur of the guardswoman and assumed they were speaking about him. He remained in place, waiting for them to round the corner of the walkway and spot him.

Now he heard the answering rumble of the dwarf's chuckle. "She's enthralled, can't you see?"

Fenris felt his frown soften as he stared at the moon, straining to hear any response from the blue-eyed leader, the woman they called Hawke. But none came. He waited for her to tell the dwarf to shove off, or the guard that she could take care of herself, but no response came. _Enthralled_. He mouthed the word and wondered if that was what her eyes had done to him.

A scuff of movement close by spurred him to look around. He found himself absorbed in the electric blue of her eyes, almost able to perceive the terrible power that resided just behind them.

"It never ends," he said in a flat voice, but the bitterness rose like bile in his chest, twisting his tone just as it twisted his lips into a sneer, "I find myself in the company of yet another mage."

Her eyes remained steady as he advanced forward a step. She stood her ground and, somewhere beneath his anger, he found himself impressed with her courage. But how could he trust her? After all he told her of his magister, she withheld such a vital piece of information about herself from him, waiting for him to figure it out for himself. "Tell me then: what matter of mage are you? What is it you seek?"

She studied his face for a moment with a serious expression. "I'm not seeking anything," she said. He noticed the way her teeth caught her lip as she fell silent and wondered what she wanted to say.

"Yet danger will undoubtedly find you," he warned her, stepping closer still. He could smell a soft embrium scent to her, like soap or a delicate perfume, and over it the damp, doggy odor of Mabari. She didn't have that haggard refugee look to her that other Fereldans had, but she had to be one. The only Marchers who kept dogs were the dog-fighting gangs in Lowtown.

"I imagine I appear ungrateful," he said, breathing the smell of her. It was… comfortable, so comfortable that it made him uncomfortable, and he wondered at the paradox. "If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth." He dug in the pouch on his belt for the last of his coins and shoved them into her hand. Where would he sleep tonight? Before he could stop, he had offered her his assistance, and it occurred to him that he stood in front of a mansion that he had just rid of all its dark magical influences. Fitting. That sense of change returned, stronger, crashing over his senses. It was as if he had leapt over a precipice with no idea what lay below and now found himself falling into that void. He realized that the change was happening, that it was _now_.

She pursed her lips and her companions watched her. Fenris realized that they were drawn to her as well. They followed her for their own reasons, different from his, but were drawn to her nonetheless. "You didn't seem all that thrilled with me a moment ago," she said, a touch of wry humor pervading the words.

"You are not Danarius," he answered, serious as he stared into the mage-glow of her gaze. "Whether you are anything like him remains to be seen." He saw a flicker in those eyes and his gut clenched. Perhaps he should not have said that last part, but… he couldn't forget. The moment he forgot how dangerous magic was, how terrible the power a mage commanded, he was as good as dead.

"I'm planning an expedition I might need help with," she answered, startling him. It seemed she would ignore the insult for now. Fenris felt relieved that she didn't press the issue about his hatred of magic, and confused at his relief.

"Fair enough," he countered. "Should you ever have need of me, I will be here. If Danarius wishes his mansion back, he is free to return and claim it. Beyond that, I am at your disposal." He didn't miss how the guardswoman's brows shot up at his comment about the mansion. But no one said anything. They all deferred to the blue-eyed mage, just as he found himself doing.

She looked him over and nodded once. "I must see my companions home," she said, "But I will come back to see if there is anything you need."

The dwarf snorted. "We're having a drink at the Hanged Man. Our whole big family likes to crowd my suite and sneak on my tab," he said. Fenris stared down at the man, studying him for the first time. He had no beard, but what he lacked in facial hair he made up for with a display of lush chest hair, thick as carpet, with a medallion nestled in the midst of it. The dwarf glanced at Hawke and then back at Fenris, broad features settling into a contented smirk. "You should join us."

Fenris looked toward Hawke for an answer, but she seemed occupied with some piece of invisible lint on her sleeve. After a second she looked up, pressing her lips together in an approximation of a smile that looked more like a wince. He realized that she must feel some anxiety about introducing her friends to a fugitive slave who hated mages and looked away.

"It wouldn't hurt to introduce you to everyone," she said after a moment. Her voice cut through the downward spiral of his thoughts and he looked back up, caught in her vivid eyes again. Something flickered in her gaze and he couldn't tell if it was magic or emotion. After all, the two were the same in a mage. This time she looked away. "But if you are too tired after—" One of her hands gestured toward the mansion, a wordless completion to her thoughts.

He hesitated, staring at her for a long moment.

"Screw this," said the dwarf, interrupting the moment. "I'm not waiting for you two to dance around a decision. There's warm ale and cold stew waiting for me in my suite."

Hawke smiled and Fenris thought he could hear a chuckle from the guardswoman behind him. He couldn't help a raspy laugh, surprised to hear a sound he seldom uttered.

"It sounds… appealing," Fenris answered, nodding once. The dwarf took off, trotting through the wide, cobbled streets of Hightown as fast as his stubby legs would carry him. The guardswoman picked up the pace without effort, long legs eating the ground. Fenris suspected she could walk as fast as the dwarf could run.

Hawke fell in step beside him and he glanced at her face, watching the shadows play across her pale skin. Under the gentle braziers that lit the streets and kept shadows and thieves at bay her features softened until she looked like some sort of goddess of the moon. Every fiber of his being cried out that she was the change, that it was Hawke. She was the force that was forever rerouting his life, changing him and the world around her without realizing. Fenris almost choked as he recognized how deep her beauty ran before he remembered how to breathe again. Though he had yet to experience her leadership, he thought, for just a moment, that he would follow this strange, lovely mage wherever she asked. He had no idea how right he was.


	3. Lava and Lyrium

**Summary:** The darkspawn ruin everything.

**Warning:** Angst, Bethany ogre-death, bitter Carver, language (including my author's note). Slight ooc-ness from Hawke and Fenris, mostly because it's a quiet moment instead of a discussion about mages or slavery and I think both have the capacity to have a few... less dramatic conversations.

**A/N:** Blah, blah, I know that the whole romance scene with Hawke and Fenris happens because of an initial physical contact, but it's unrealistic to think that in three years working with and fighting alongside someone, you would never have any physical contact. From here on, different points will vary from the love story in the game, such as how much Hawke and Fenris see each other, how they interact during those 'dark spaces,' and details about how they manage to go three frickin years without getting their shit together.

And thanks to the reviewers!

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><p>"<em>I had better be swimming in gold after this<em>."

-Hawke

**III.**

"Hawke," the way he said it made her think of a frog. A single lazy croak that formed her name. Perhaps she just missed wildlife too much. Strange how the Deep Roads oppressed her, how they made her feel as if there were no sun or sky or earth, only endless stone.

She looked up from the fire she stared into, toward the elf standing over her with his folded arms. White hair fell to skim his high cheekbones and green eyes fixed on her with that piercing, intent stare. Most days it warmed her, but here, underground, she seemed numb to the power of his gaze. She wondered if anything would ever make her feel warm again.

"You have not slept," he said when she didn't speak. His posture shifted from fugitive slouch to something commanding and she realized that he had yet to put his armor on, his hair still mussed with sleep and only a loose black vest instead of the usual chest plate and spikes.

She was too miserable to appreciate the view.

"It's my watch," she replied, looking back toward the fire. She remembered the flames that Bethany flung at the ogre just before her little sister died. Her poor sister would have hated the Deep Roads, filled with the ghastly darkspawn that drove them from their home. Everywhere she turned was infested with the bastard beasts that killed her sister and led her to— no. She wouldn't think of it, because she would sooner die herself than use it again.

He crouched in a fluid motion, the leather of his pants creaking. She wondered, not for the first time, how old he was. Elves didn't age like humans—the Dalish looked young into middle age and the elves in the Alienages seemed old before they were thirty. Fenris resembled neither; his face had a timeless quality, as if his refined features would remain perfect for millennia. Thinking about his 'perfect face' made her cheeks hot, and she hoped he couldn't see it through the dark, or that any flush could be mistaken for the flames reflecting off the viscous molten rivers and blood-colored walls.

Hawke felt his eyes on her face as she looked at her hands, tracing runes in the fine lyrium dust that coated everything. "You should rest before your shift," she said, scuffing the marks away with the heel of her hand.

When she dared a look at him, her heart seemed to beat in slow motion. The firelight left red and gold highlights across his tan that the lyrium tattoos cut through with a fierce pale glow. The vest revealed so much more of him and without thinking, she stared at the one beautiful thing she'd seen since arriving in the Primeval Thaig a few days earlier.

"My turn begins once I convince you to rest," he answered, tilting his head and watching her face as she stared at him. He reached a hand toward her cheek, pausing before his fingers could touch her, and made a semi-circular sweep with his thumb hovering just above her skin. "Your eyes show your weariness."

With all her strength, Hawke shut her eyes against the image of his face, so close and concerned. Maker, she hadn't been with a man since before the bloody Blight. Part of her wanted to kiss him and pull him into a dark corner, away from the prying eyes of the others on the expedition. The rest of her wanted to collapse against his chest and cry until she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

Of course she knew that Fenris would be terrified or mortified or so shocked that he killed her before he knew what she was doing. He hated being touched; she saw him nearly break Merrill's fingers once when the other elf tapped him on the shoulder. And Hawke doubted that his aversion to physical contact was reserved for the blood mage. The way he walked through a crowd, prowling, twisting to avoid bumping into people. No, he was not a good choice for a shoulder to cry on or a comforting hug or even a desperate, passionate tumble to forget where they were.

"What is the matter?" he asked. His voice grew soft, almost tentative. She could feel how near he was, but she knew better than to let her shoulder touch his, or to slump against his side, much as she wanted to.

Hawke shook her head and held in a sob. "I just… I hate it here," she said at last. "I hate the darkspawn. They remind me of the Blight… and of Bethany." She felt like a child admitting it, and worse because Fenris must think her a fool already, an incapable leader and an unattractive, sniveling woman. For all she told her mother and Carver to be strong and hold Bethany's memory dear, Hawke couldn't forgive herself for letting her die. It should have been her, not her sweet baby sister. She had used Bethany's death to save the rest of her family—she deserved to die.

She heard a scuffle beside her and opened her eyes again, breathing deep, as if discovering air for the first time. Fenris sat so near that she would bump against him if she sneezed.

"Tell me about her," he used that quiet voice again. She liked it. He spoke at such a pitch that the fire walled them off from the rest of the camp, a bright curtain lent intimacy by his tone.

Hawke looked back into the fire. She took another breath and her arm brushed his. She felt him flinch, shifting so they did not remain in contact, but he didn't move away.

"You would have liked her," she began, staring at the flames. "Even if she was a mage, like me. She hated blood magic, too. But she… she had this way of seeing her powers as something beautiful, as a gift. It was nice. Practicing spells with her, it always seemed pleasant. Special. Like we had something so beautiful to share with the world. She truly believed that our magic was a gift from the Maker."

"She was… Carver's twin?" he asked. Hawke glanced at him, startled.

Of course all of her friends knew about Bethany and how she died trying to protect their mother. It shouldn't have surprised her, but in some dark corner of her mind she had always supposed that Fenris would never deign to care about her siblings. He tolerated her brother well enough, but Hawke always had a sense that Fenris found Carver annoying. She wondered if he would have gotten along with her sister, if perhaps Bethany might have taught him that not all magic was a curse.

If Bethany were still alive, Hawke would still see her magic as a gift. She might never have encountered that darkness inside herself. That evil might never have existed if her sister had lived.

"Yes. She was minute older than him and he _hated_ it, being the little brother to two girls," she said. She chuckled, and then remembered the bitter expression on her brother's face as she left for the Deep Roads without him, the way he stormed off through Hightown with his rigid posture. She had watched him go, knowing that he held back from a fierce sprint back to Gamlen's. As he walked off with quickening steps she saw the little boy who ran off to cry in secret when she teased him and knew her brother would never forgive her. If he only knew what she'd spared him from.

Fenris tilted his head forward, still crouched, and rested his arms on his knees. She stared at his messy white hair. An urge to smooth it to its usual style overcame her and she quelled it. He'd probably rip her arm off if she tried. Hawke studied his profile for a moment, the way the firelight and lava lit his skin, and she wondered if there was anything to their brief, awkward flirtations or if she was deluding herself.

"You are thinking about him," said Fenris and she felt her face heat again before she realized he meant Carver, not himself. Of course he did.

She sighed. "He was just so furious that I didn't take him along… he was like a golden boy in Lothering, the one everyone in town knew, the strong brother who protected his sisters. And then the Blight came and after he enlisted, everything changed. I think he hates Kirkwall, or maybe it's just me he hates. Especially since I didn't bring him along."

The elf stared at her. "Why didn't you bring him?" His gaze was intent on her face. The image of him lit by lava and lyrium seared through her eyes and mind and heart.

Hawke's teeth rubbed against her lower lip. She wanted to look away from him, but he held her trapped with his green eyes. "If I lost him down here," she whispered, her voice cracking alongside the fire. Fenris blurred in front of her aching eyes and she realized tears had gathered in a fine film over her vision.

"I do not know what it is like to lose family, or if I do, I have long since forgotten," he said, shifting to the balls of his feet and glancing around the camp. No one stirred and she wondered what it was he had heard with his sharp ears. Perhaps some scuttling beetle, though she doubted that anything lived down here except for darkspawn. She hadn't seen any other sign of life, aside from primeval ruins that had been overrun by the gruesome beasts.

A moment later one of his lean arms circled her shoulders and squeezed. Startled, she tensed, feeling the hidden strength there, the almost-contact of his bare skin on the fabric of her robe. Before she could relax or react, his arm withdrew and he stood, abrupt. Hawke looked up to see his face turn, hair falling to hood his eyes.

"I'm… sorry," she fumbled for the words, not certain what she had done but flustered nonetheless.

With as much speed as he had stood, Fenris crouched again, this time in front of her. His serious eyes mesmerized her, his closeness terrifying because now his eyes and lips and the edges of tattoos on his chin that she wanted to trace with her thumb were all _right there_ in her face.

"Never apologize for loving your family, Hawke," he said, grasping her shoulders with his hands. For a dizzying moment she thought he might kiss her as she felt his fingers pressing into her arms. Her eyes fluttered down to look at his lips and her heart quickened.

And then he said, "I can hear a group of darkspawn moving a few tunnels over. We ought to wake Varric and Aveline and hunt them before they encounter our camp."

Hawke nodded, forcing her mind to shift away from Fenris, away from her sister's death, and away from her seething brother back in Kirkwall. As she and the elf stood, she realized they were at eye level, chest-to-chest, their mouths just inches apart. He turned for his armor and after watching him for a stunned second, she turned for their sleeping companions.

Maker, the darkspawn ruined everything.


	4. Dizzy

**THANKS TO THE REVIEWERS! **You guys are awesome. Much returned love.

**_Warnings:_ Continued teasing, drinking, Isabela's dirty jokes, and some character-induced Carver-bashing. I actually love the hell out of Carver, but let's face it, he's kind of a dick to Hawke a lot of the time. Being the proud owner of two younger brothers, I have to opt for an accurate depiction of a little brother acting like an ass.**

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><p>"<em>I am not my sister.<em>"

-Carver

**IV.**

Fenris was shirtless and half-drunk when his sharp ears detected the noise of someone walking through his front door. He stood, gathering his wits, and reached for his sword before he recognized the soft soles and sure steps of Hawke. He tilted his head, listening, and realized that the usual confidence had leeched from her stride.

She burst into the room, her blue eyes glittering with magic and fury and… tears? He felt his brows knit together as he released the hilt of his claymore and took a step toward her.

"What—" he began, but she spoke as well, interrupting him even as she answered the question he failed to ask.

"It's not enough that he joined the bloody Templars, but now he's outright _avoiding_ me," she cried, a hysterical note pervading her voice. The air around her crackled with heat and power and Fenris drew back, wary. "I was chatting with Ser Cullen and that little prig walked right past me and stood there talking to Cullen like I wasn't even there."

The shrill quality of her words made him flinch as much as the display of raw power did. He had never witnessed her in a full rage before, even when Carver took his vows a year before.

"I am sorry to hear that, Hawke," he said, not yet comfortable enough to use her first name. Not that Varric or Aveline or any of the others used it either, but somehow Fenris felt that he had more right to call her by her first name than they did. Perhaps it was the shy smile that spread over her pink cheeks after she complimented him, or the fact that he felt it was a special smile reserved for him.

Her shoulders sagged and he felt the temperature of the room normalize. Out of instinct he stepped toward her and realized that he was tensed for some kind of battle, though it wasn't fear or anger that thrilled his veins. It felt like adrenaline, but a different heat than bloodlust. Fenris clenched his fists at his sides to hold back the surge of danger in himself. He wasn't angry with Hawke, after all; he was angry with Carver for being such a belligerent fool.

"I would gladly go to the Gallows in the morning and… kick his ass on your behalf," he said, using one of Varric and Isabela's favorite phrases. The words felt alien on his tongue but brought an odd sense of satisfaction as he uttered them.

A faint, distressed chuckle escaped her and pride surged through Fenris. She looked at him with her slumping posture and watery eyes and he thought of that night in the Deep Roads when he had dared put his arm around her, even for a moment. He had an urge to do it again, to hold her against his chest or kiss her or—he couldn't even consider the baser, animalistic urges.

"It's okay," she murmured, her voice softening. "He is still angry. There's nothing I can do that will make it any better." To see the anger drain from her and leave her so fatigued disturbed Fenris. He always knew she carried her burdens in silence, letting them weigh on her soul until she felt crushed, but he had never seen anything succeed in defeating her like this had.

He had always found Carver tolerable at best, irritating and whiny at worst, but now cold fury filled him. What a selfish bastard, to hurt his sister time and again. Gritting his teeth, unable to contain the violence in his voice, Fenris added, "It would be my pleasure to do so."

Hawke blinked and stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. A hint of color rose in her cheeks and she lowered her gaze. "You're drunk," she realized. Her eyes darted from his face to the bottles on the table and back again. She folded her arms and Fenris felt a jolt of shame at her posture. It was a level of guilt he hadn't felt since he killed the Fog Warriors and the recollection chilled his veins with rage.

"Do not judge me," his tone was clipped as he turned and paced away from her, unwilling to bear her scrutiny and disapproval.

A contemptuous snort answered. "I was going to ask if I might have a glass, but if you want me to leave—" she said. He whirled to face her again and she cut herself off, but he stood too far away to distinguish whether her faint frown came from confusion or irritation.

His heart thudded. If Isabela's raunchy stories were to be believed, getting drunk alone in his house with Hawke would lead them straight to bed. Or, as the pirate suggested, 'bent over the desk screaming for you,' which called to mind a specific image that had certain side effects he didn't want Hawke seeing. Fenris swallowed in an effort to ease the sudden dryness of his mouth. Then again, he knew that Hawke and Varric often drank alone in the dwarf's suite after discussing business and he was certain that they had never slept together. That and it seemed impossible for Varric to bend a human over a table. He hoped.

Fenris made a stiff gesture toward the table. "Help yourself. The wine cellars are extensive," he said, adding a silent prayer to any god that might listen to keep him from making a complete fool of himself.

She gave him a grateful smile. "I'm sorry. You don't need me coming here and dumping all of my mad family dramas on you as an excuse to leech your wine," she sighed as she picked the bottle up, glanced at the label, and took a gulp. "But Maker, it's good. Much better than anything at the Hanged Man."

"You wound me with such comparisons," he said, striding toward the table and tugging the bottle from her hand. Their fingers brushed, just a moment, but electricity jumped between them in that breath. Fenris took a long draught before she could see any reaction from him.

When he lowered the bottle she extended her hand toward him with expectation in her eyes, a faint smile playing on her lips. His fingers rose, prepared to caress her palm and twine with hers, but before he could summon the courage to make such a daring gesture, she snatched the wine back. Fenris blinked and watched her tip the bottle back, her throat making tiny twitching movements as she finished the contents.

"Is this a competition?" she asked, her tongue swiping a few spare drops from her lips. She smiled, but her eyes retained a painful crinkle at the edges. The dark red wine stained her mouth pink and he found himself drowning in her yet again.

Hawke could play the noble almost too well; years of running around in intricate mage robes had left her comfortable and graceful in even the ridiculous brocade of Orlesian fashions while her keen awareness prevented her from making any scandalous social missteps and her ability to listen and weigh every situation according to individual merit made her a brilliant conversationalist in even the stuffiest company.

But for all that she made as lovely a lady as any of the prissy noblewomen haunting the Viscount's Keep, Hawke stood apart in her distinct lack of prissiness. She drank from the bottle, danced to Fereldan folk tunes in the Hanged Man, laughed and bantered with Varric and Isabela after a few rounds, fought with ferocity equal to any warrior and commanded respect with a few words, binding her friends together with the confidence she inspired and the considered compassion she offered.

Fenris wished that he could still be startled to have such thoughts of her, but as he grew accustomed to freedom and to her he could not help but to grow accustomed to the feelings she inspired in him. A woman like her could never feel such for an embittered runaway like himself, and though he did not enjoy it, he was accustomed to that understanding as well. Perhaps if he had made his desires clear sooner, while she still lived in Lowtown, before wealthy suitors and titled nobility came swarming for her attention, he might have claimed her for himself. Now he could not doubt that she was too good for him.

Rather than ruminate on his conflicting emotions, Fenris focused on her teasing words. "Is that wise? I do not know that I will be in any condition to carry you back to your home once you lose consciousness," he smirked, catching her dazzling eyes with his. For a moment he could have sworn he saw her gaze flick across his bare skin, from the loose pants hanging low on his hips up to his lips, before she smiled at him.

"And my mother would have Dog trained to chase you off the property if you stumbled into the foyer and dropped her drunken daughter in the middle of the carpet," she added, shifting her hands to her hips.

Fenris raised a brow, confused and intrigued at her choice of words. "You think I would drop you? Do you doubt my ability to lift you?" He wanted her to challenge him while the wine had him lightheaded and giddy enough to accept, when an accidental brush of lips might be forgotten or at least forgiven. His hands flexed at his sides of their own accord, tensing with anticipation.

"I don't doubt that you could lift me, but drunkards never fail to overestimate their capabilities," Hawke laughed and turned toward the assorted wines on the table. "And in a competition of drink, you have already given me the advantage, haven't you?"

He felt his stomach flutter in answer as he watched her lean over to grasp a new bottle. She rummaged through a few empties and he found his eyes drawn to her backside while his mind fell to the bend of her waist and the primal simplicity of Isabela's obscene yet brilliant idea. His feet shuffled forward and he caught himself just as she turned around. Blue eyes widened at his proximity and he heard her heart pound.

"Hawke—" he started to say.

"Fenris, I—" she caught a hand against the table, leaning away, and turned her face aside, looking down as if she couldn't bear to finish speaking.

Maker, Creators, Ancestors, he wanted to reach out and run his hand along the edge of her face. His markings tingled under his skin and in his tipsy torpor he knew that touching her would bring no pain, that only his unquenched desire caused the agony he felt while staring at her.

She took a breath and looked at him. "I am sorry for burdening you with my problems. They are nothing compared to yours," she said. Her words seemed to choke her as she spoke. "I forget how lucky I am to still have a brother, even if he won't talk to me."

Fenris blinked. He had forgotten his brooding when she came in, grateful for a distraction from his constant fury and paranoia. And she had forgotten her brother for a moment, smiling and even laughing at his subtle humor.

"I do not mind," he said, his chest tight and warm in spite of his lack of a shirt. "You are always welcome here."

Hawke tilted her head to one side, straightening away from the table. She stepped toward him, too close to believe, her pale face inches from his. When she breathed her clothed breasts brushed against his bare skin and his short nails bit into his palms. He felt dizzy, drunk with her closeness, more drunk than the wine had made him.

"You're a good friend," she said, lifting a hand toward his face. "I truly don't know what I would do if I didn't have you in my life." He thought for a moment that she might cup his cheek, draw him close and kiss him. But her palm paused, hovered near his skin, and lowered.

Fenris wanted to catch her wrist, to drag her hand up to his face and kiss her fingertips and her lips and drag her to the musty cot in the corner. The idea thrilled him and terrified him at the same time. She would never look at him the same way if he pressed himself upon her like that. Her rejection would break what shattered fragments remained of his heart and soul, and he could not afford such pain. Not just as he had begun to live a true life.

He felt a faint smile curve his lips in spite of his doubts. "As are you, Hawke," he responded. He leaned forward, felt her sharp intake of breath as his cheek brushed near hers as a shiver of strange pleasure against his ear, and grabbed the last full bottle of wine from the table.


	5. Smoke and Silver

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. It makes me smile and want to keep writing this.

**Warnings:** Isabela pisses Fenris and Hawke off. Language, references to Isabela dirtiness, references to minor drug use, and an almost-kiss.

A/N: Takes place about 30 months after the Deep Roads (two and a half years for those that don't want to do the math). A semi-explanation for the riot that Isabela starts between the Deep Roads and the Qunari conflict. And I know Spindleweed is for terminally ill patients, but so is medical marijuana and I just really liked the idea of writing an angry, stoned Fenris bitching about Isabela being dirty.

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><p>"<em>That taut, controlled body, the brooding demeanor…"<em>

-Isabela

**V.**

The door of the Hanged Man crashed shut behind Fenris, the sound rattling through Hawke. Fear and fury filled her and she turned accusing eyes back to the pirate across the table.

"How could you?" she hissed, standing up and slamming an open palm against the tabletop. The pages strewn there rustled like leaves in a pre-hurricane wind.

Isabela shrugged and sipped her whiskey. "I was trying to help you," she said, unconcerned as she leaned back and draped an arm across the back of her chair.

Hawke shook her head, feeling strands of her short hair stand on end with building magical fury. "Well that worked well, didn't it?" she asked through gritted teeth. Her nails dug into the nearest pages, wrinkling and tearing the edges.

"Hey, watch it," Isabela exclaimed, reaching out to rescue her story. Of course she would be more worried about saving the obscene things she'd written than about the mortification and horror she'd caused her friends. The pirate cast pouting amber eyes toward Hawke. "I worked hard on that," she chuckled, overemphasizing the word 'hard.'

Beside her, Varric piped up, "It's pretty well-written."

"Shut up," snapped Hawke, pointing a finger at him. The dwarf blinked and looked at Isabela just as Hawke's attention turned back to the pirate. Her eyes narrowed to deadly slits. "You had no right."

Like Fenris before her, she threw the pages that were in her reach into further disarray and stormed out of the tavern. She walked through Lowtown at such a speed that she didn't recognize the passing scenery, didn't even realize how far she'd gone until she passed her own house and turned into the Hightown Estates.

Hawke took a deep breath, steadying herself, and knocked on Fenris' door. As far away as the lone study he used for his apartment was, she knew his elf ears could hear her walking up the steps. Part of her hoped he wasn't home, that she could put this conversation off for another day or at least a few hours.

The door swung open to reveal Fenris, his white hair mussed and his green eyes bloodshot, lanky form hidden by a loose black shirt and pants. It made her miss his fitted armor, and the thought made her blush.

"Come in before that pirate wench's spies see you," he growled. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping like steel around her arm, and he jerked her inside.

Hawke stumbled through the doorway and landed against his chest, her palms splayed across his pectoral muscles as the door slammed with a heavy echo through the dim foyer. She felt hard muscle and buzzing lyrium through his shirt and pulled back, turning away and shivering. Perhaps he hadn't seen her face, the longing and fear and confusion that felt so naked for that second.

"I'm so sorry about Isabela," she blurted, covering her eyes with a hand. She didn't want him to see how distraught she was at the pirate's joke. Harmless, indeed. "I had no idea she was going to do that."

The same strong fingers dug into her shoulder and forced her around, while a hand on her wrist shoved the cover away from her eyes. "What did you say to her?" he demanded.

She opened her eyes. Fenris' face hovered close to hers, furious sneer curling his lips away from his teeth. The violence in his form terrified her and aroused her at once but for all the brutal power he exuded in that moment, he never hurt her. She would have no bruises where he gripped her, no marks from his fingertips. His scent filled her senses, the tart smell of wine and the underlying metallic smell, covered in another, more pungent aroma—something smoky and sour, like a combination of pine needles and skunks.

"I didn't say anything," she said, shaking her head. "She just… I don't know. Made assumptions and invented the rest."

It was true enough; Isabela noticed how Fenris and Hawke sat together every time their group gathered at the Hanged Man, how they walked there together from Hightown, and the glances she gave him when he wasn't looking at her. The final straw had been late one night last week when the elf slipped and called her by her first name in front of their drunken comrades. Only Isabela had recalled the mistake or even noticed it, aided by her heroic tolerance for alcohol. Of course Hawke had to admit her feelings when the pirate confronted her with a notebook full of observations and information, but she couldn't just admit that to Fenris. Not in this mood, at any rate.

He let go of her and stalked away, turning around after a few steps and pacing. After a tense minute during which neither spoke, he stopped and stared at her. "This was not an attempt to… mock me?" he asked, folding his arms over his chest. She saw the tattoos flare under his clothing, their light shining through the fabric for a second before it faded.

Hawke shook her head. "It was an attempt to mock both of us," she answered, helpless. "Believe me, I had words with her."

Fenris snorted, contempt dripping from each word as he spoke. "I am sure," he tossed his head and for a moment she could only see the bright red of the capillaries flooding his eyes.

Her brows drew together, and though she knew she was angry with Isabela, not him, the fury she felt lashed through her voice. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He shifted, letting his arms drop to his sides, and hung his head for a moment. When he lifted it, he seemed weary. "You have no talent for cruelty, Hawke," he sighed, "Only forgiveness. To one such as her, that means she can endure your anger without apology, knowing you will forgive her in the end."

The rage left her limbs and she shook her head. "I can't forgive her for this, Fenris," she said, watching him as he watched her. "That story was just awful. I can't believe she would write something like that, much less read it aloud at the Hanged Man. It's humiliating and disgusting and I'm afraid…" She couldn't finish, couldn't give voice to her fears lest they come true.

His bare feet made no noise as he stepped closer, back into intoxicating proximity. Green eyes flashed through the red lines crisscrossing them. "What are you afraid of?" he asked, his deep voice tense.

The corners of her mouth turned down so severely that her cheeks and chin ached from the sudden strain. She stared at him for a long moment and just as he shifted his weight she lowered her eyes, ashamed. Currents of air eddied around her face and she had the impression of rapid movement being halted.

"How could you ever respect me after hearing such things?" she whispered, unable to meet his gaze as she spoke. "Even if they didn't come from my imagination, you cannot un-hear what Isabela said any more than I can. Who, after listening to such filth, would be able to see me as a leader, as anything but a joke and a whore?"

When she did look up at him her eyes burned with hot tears. His lips hung apart, just a trifle, his brows raised and drawn together in an expression of sorrow and tender concern.

"You have nothing to fear. I can't imagine you as a whore," he said, stepping closer, until their chests just touched and the smoke and silver smell enveloped her again. His hand rose toward her cheek and fell and she thought for a moment of how many times each had made such a gesture in the last three years—reaching and giving up before any contact could be made. How many evenings had they sat in the mansion together, sipping wine and talking about everything from the Tevinter war with the Qunari to Varric's newest medallion, not touching, but comfortable in their companionship nonetheless? Never to have him would be punishment enough, but she would gladly sit unloved at his side if it meant having his friendship.

Her lips trembled at the almost-touch and at the expression in his bloodshot eyes. "I am afraid that after the disgusting things Isabela said, you won't want to be my friend any longer," she admitted. Her hands shook at her sides, her knees weak with the mix of emotions. After all, he had thought she was part of the pirate's scheme, that she had helped Isabela in a cruel effort to humiliate him. It occurred to her that it must remind him of the abuses he suffered as a slave, to be mocked in public like that.

"Marian," he said, and hearing him use her first name made her breath catch in her lungs and the tone, firm and commanding yet wistful and gentle, made her feel as if her bones were melting. His hand rose again and this time skimmed her hair and it took every ounce of strength in her being not to turn her face toward it, to kiss the point on his wrist where two lyrium stripes crossed. Instead she kept her gaze on his face, on the looming red eyes and tangled white hair and chapped lips. "I did not choose to be your friend. You are a mage, and though you are not weak enough to use blood magic or accept a demon's help, you have powers too terrifying to imagine. You think it and a man burns alive before your eyes."

She shifted, tried to lower her eyes, and was startled to feel his hand shift from her hair to her chin, tipping her chin back so she was forced to stare into his eyes. The intimacy of their position quickened her heart to a hummingbird thrum and she knew he could feel the hammering against his chest. His heart beat at just as furious a rhythm against her, but his hand did not move from her face, his fingertips light, the tips pressed just between her throat and jaw.

"But as much as that power frightens me, I can trust it because it is yours. You are all that the Magisters are not: a strong woman with a noble heart and a clear, untainted mind. I did not choose to be your friend because I did not have to," he continues, his face so close to hers now that she can almost taste the smoke and wine on his breath. "Your friendship was always there and I could not help but to offer the same, to take refuge from my former life in your strength and kindness and to pray that I might offer the same to you if ever you need such from me."

Hawke felt her weakened knees loosen until her weight pressed against his chest, felt his arm circle her waist as her hands grasped the fabric of his shirt, her face still tilted toward his by those featherweight fingers of his. He was about to kiss her, she realized, he felt just as she did—relief flooded her alongside the desire she always felt for him and her breath caught as he shifted closer.

"Fenris, I need your help, I can't find Hawke—"

The door crashed open and Aveline stood silhouetted against the soft lamps of Hightown night. The guardswoman stared for a moment at their intimate pose, even as Hawke and Fenris leapt apart and turned away from one another, too embarrassed to explain themselves.

"I need your help," she said, glancing between both of them with raised brows and no comment to the situation she intruded upon. Hawke thanked the Maker in silence for Aveline's surprising tact. "Isabela's started an all-out riot in Lowtown."

"She seems determined to outdo herself tonight," Fenris muttered, shaking his head and looking at the guardswoman. Hawke realized that he had managed to dart several feet away from her, putting a half-collapsed bench between their bodies.

"How did she start a riot?" Hawke asked, shaking her head, willing the tremors in her heart and veins to subside. She focused on her redheaded friend's face. "Why?"

Aveline sighed. "I don't know what it was, but she's raging drunk and started a brawl the size of the Bazaar that's spilled out of the Hanged Man and is moving toward the docks," she said, her reassuring Fereldan accent clipped with annoyance. Her irritated gaze shifted from Hawke to Fenris. "Get your sword and be glad I don't arrest you for smoking Spindleweed in here. You know that's not how it's meant to be used."

The elf regarded the guard captain for a long moment and Hawke watched them stare each other down. The redhead crossed her arms with the clank and clatter of her armor. Then Fenris turned and stalked into the shadows of the mansion to obtain his weapon.

Once he was out of sight, Aveline stepped up to Hawke and gave her a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry for whatever I interrupted. You two deserve a moment of happiness," she murmured, reaching up to pat Hawke's shoulder with a gentle but distinctly metal hand, "Not Isabela's bloody bullshit."

"You didn't interrupt anything," Hawke sighed, rueful, her eyes peering through the dark as if she might see the dark-clad elf through the shadows. She glanced up at her friend and feigned a lighthearted shrug. "We were just discussing Isabela's bullshit, too."


	6. Riot

Thank you reviewers... and thank you also for pointing out that Fenris is not a stoner. You're all right; he's not in the least. As my professors tell me all the time, every action has motivation and consequence- you can't just know it in your head. Give the readers what they want!

So here we have both motivation (why _did_ Broodmaster Glow decide to upgrade from wine to weed?) and the consequences (swordfighting while baked... not good). Not as hilarious as you'd think, but realistic enough. I do promise to redeem Isabela, but this is also a point in the game where she sort of goes full-blown with the downward spiral.

**Warnings:** references to drug use, language, and a dirty story of Isabela's as well as some rather graphic dead people. And a damn tease of an author, of course.

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><p><em>"I'm here if you need me."<em>

-Aveline

**VI.**

As Aveline led them back to Lowtown and that damned pirate, Fenris found himself walking alongside Hawke, his head spinning worse than wine with the Spindleweed. He didn't dare glance at her profile, still confused and distraught by the fact that he had almost kissed her just as much as it bothered him that he had lost his chance to go through with it. After the first foul-flavored lungful he'd regretted stealing the Spindleweed from Isabela, but in his determination to vindicate himself on the pirate without crushing her throat he had forced himself to smoke it all.

Now the brisk jog Aveline set made his head and chest ache. He wanted to sit down, to pull Hawke with him and try to explain that he hated Isabela because she had portrayed his feelings for as cheap and scandalous. Not that some of it didn't appeal—like that bit about pressing Hawke against a wall or the description of a drop of sweat dribbling from her collarbone to the space between her breasts— but Fenris wanted every moment between them to be _theirs_, not some Lowtown tavern filth.

"Are you alright?" Hawke asked beside him, and he felt her stare on his face long before he turned to meet it. "You look a bit ill."

He stared at her like a fool, the way the starlight reflected off her face and hair and glowed in her eyes. Fenris wanted to recite poetry to her, but he only knew Tevinter poems and obscene limericks, courtesy of Varric and Isabela. Without words he just stared, stumbling as Aveline led them down a flight of stairs and righting himself a moment before he could land on his face.

Hawke caught his arm and held him back as the guard captain snorted and continued without pause. Her fingers fit through the spikes of the armor he had struggled to put on before they left, turning him to face her for a moment. "Do you trust me?" she said.

Fenris blinked bleary eyes at her and nodded after a long moment. She lifted her hand over his face, the palm so close he could smell Dog and that faint perfume of embrium and magic on her wrist though she never touched his skin. Green light flashed and he felt his head clearing of the Spindleweed torpor and even the wine he'd tried to wash it down with.

"What did you do?" he asked her, staring with wary eyes. She could not pretend it wasn't magic and the urge to grab and shake her had never been stronger.

Hawke narrowed her eyes at him and turned, jogging after Aveline. He had no choice but to follow and found that for the moments he trailed behind her his eyes fell to her swaying hips and the staff bumping against them in hypnotic rhythm. Though he knew it happened every time she moved ahead of him, Fenris felt an unusual surge of irritation tonight.

He lengthened his stride to catch up with her, glaring as she turned a corner to follow the flash of Aveline's armor.

"You used magic on me," he accused. The betrayal tasted bitter on his tongue and as he watched her he saw the sudden hurt flashing in her eyes as she turned to meet his gaze.

Never before had she dared to use even a healing spell on him, instead opting to treat his wounds with poultices and careful stitches when necessary. He had suffered few wounds since meeting her, because she believed that prevention was better than a cure and had an uncanny ability to destroy any enemy that got close enough to hurt him.

Her sure steps faltered for a moment and she bumped against his side as they rounded another corner, trailing further behind the guard captain. "Why would you do that," she murmured, glancing up at him through the pieces of dark hair that hung forever in her eyes. "What would possess you to further break the law by using Spindleweed like that? It's something I would expect from Isabela, even Varric, but not _you_."

A shock of guilt filled Fenris, all the worse because he was a free man. He made his choice of his own accord and disappointed her as a result. Her soft scolding, the gentle nature that prevented her from condemning him, twisted his heart until he had to look ahead, letting his hair shadow his face.

"I stole it from Isabela," he admitted into the night. "She started reading and at first I simply stole it, intending to taunt her with it in exchange for the destruction of the story." As talented a mage as Hawke was, it seemed she hadn't managed to get all the traces of intoxicant from his system, because he kept talking. "By the end, though, I wanted to kill her. I have heard Spindleweed calms the nerves somewhat, which is true enough."

"Why did you wait until she finished?" she asked him.

He hesitated. A good part of the reason was his fascination with the story, with the images it conjured of Hawke's naked body against his. But he had also watched her as the pirate read, trying to decide if she looked away with flaming cheeks because she felt ashamed or disgusted.

"Why did you?" he responded, daring to glance at her. He saw blue eyes widen, startled, and heat rise to her face before she turned her gaze ahead and pulled her staff from her back.

A massive crowd of rioters stumbled through the streets, most of them unarmed and drunk, stampeding because the others were, too. They were easy enough to scare away and the more belligerent fools he slapped with the flat of his blade or smacked with the hilt to hurry them along. Just as the bulk of the swarm dissipated he heard a guardsman cry out, 'Undercuts!' Fenris realized as shadowed forms dropped from the rooftops that the crowd had grown thanks to interference from the multitude of Lowtown gangs, each trying to scrape a piece of loot or territory for themselves.

As he slashed through a cluster of thugs he heard Hawke's voice snapping the word 'incinerate' and rolled out of the way as fire rained from the sky. After that the remaining Thrifters hurried off and those that didn't manage to escape refused to stop fighting until they died. The gang would have to be investigated another night; they left no prisoners.

He saw Aveline yelling, pointing a metal-encased finger at the pirate's furious face so close that it looked like she might jam it straight up Isabela's nose. For her part, Isabela could do nothing but swear and scream; a guard held each of her arms and her weapons lay discarded on the ground a few feet away.

"Someone stole the best bits of the story I—" Isabela protested.

"I don't bloody care! If you steal from everyone, someone's going to get you back one day.

"—Worked my _ass_ off—"

"Don't think I don't know where the elf got that Spindleweed—"

"—only to have Hawke and Fenris go all broody and bitchy on me!"

A pause, and drunken Isabela seemed to absorb Aveline's words. "That bastard elf stole it," she cried. There was a metallic crash as Isabela kicked one of the guards in the groin. Fenris saw the man release her and drop to his knees. The pirate made a break for it, but the other guard held fast and Aveline lunged forward. The guard captain's armored gauntlet shot out, her fist striking the back of the ship captain's head. Isabela slumped, unconscious.

"Take her to the brig," snapped Aveline. She turned to the man that Isabela kicked and put a hand on his shoulder. Fenris' sharp ears still heard her murmur, in an almost gentle voice, "Are you all right, Guardsman Donnic? I'm sorry about that bloody pirate. You can take to the barracks for the rest of the night; I'll fill in your patrol."

Fenris turned away from the scene and stumbled over one of the charred corpses that Hawke's firestorm had destroyed. The smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils, and though Hawke had cleared most of the Spindleweed and wine from his head, the scent of cooking meat reminded him that he was hungry. His eyes fell on the cooked armor casing of the Undercut Thrifter against his toes and the shriveled blackened flesh within, and his stomach turned. Fenris staggered into a corner and retched, bracing his hand against the wall, his sword loose in the grip of his other hand.

Gentle fingers pressed against his back and he knew the touch for Hawke. Through the grafted leather armor he felt her hand rub circles and then, when he least expected it, those fingers dug into his hair, combing through the tangles and smoothing the sweaty strands out of his streaming eyes.

He coughed and spat the last of the bile up, taking deep breaths and straightening. He hadn't vomited in years, not since Hadriana tested a mild poison intended to humiliate a rival apprentice on him. It had been a terrible month and vomiting now reminded him of the constant cruelty they inflicted upon him. The difference now was that instead of delivering a sharp kick to his ribs, Hawke soothed him with her tender touch.

Fenris turned to face Hawke, seeing her pale face glitter in the moonlight, her brilliant eyes glowing with concern. She pulled a small red handkerchief from somewhere in her robes and he saw the Amell family crest embroidered in the corner as she lifted it to dab his chin and cheeks, cleaning the traces of vomit away from his face.

"Do you feel a bit better?" she asked him, brushing a corner of the silken cloth across his lower lip. He shivered at the touch. A worried frown knotted her brows. "Can you make it back home, or do you need to stay at the Hanged Man tonight?"

"I…" he said, trailing off and staring at her. His gloved hands caught her wrists and drew them downward from his face to his chest. Perhaps it was the lingering Spindleweed or the way she had cleaned him up in spite of his wretchedness or the fact that Aveline had robbed them of their moment. In either case, his hands shifted to her shoulders, seizing them and drawing her closer, leaning in to kiss her.

But her hands against his chest grew resistant and she turned her face aside before his lips could reach hers. Fenris drew back, startled, hurt, and confused. She showed him such tenderness, but was it just friendship after all? Moments ago in the mansion she had seemed prepared to kiss him, to receive his affections.

"I'm sorry, Fenris," she said, backing away a step. "It's just… the vomit on your breath..." A flush colored her cheeks, brighter for the sputtering animal-fat torches of Lowtown, and she trailed off.

He felt his brows rise and his emptied stomach knot. How could he forget such a thing? She must have thought him vile, an uncouth brute, unfit for the attentions of a noblewoman such as herself. He backed away, further into the corner, feeling as if he could hear Hadriana's high, cold laugh ringing in his ears.

"I apologize," he said, unable to meet her eyes. Still, he saw the concern filling her features and she stepped forward, smoothing a piece of hair away from his eyes, her chest against his.

"Look at me, Fenris," she murmured, tucking the strand behind his ear. Her fingers brushed the tender cartilage and he shivered, gripping his fists in an effort not to reach for her again. With reluctance, he lifted his eyes to her earnest face. "I hope one day you will kiss me. But I want it to be your choice and I want it to be _me_ you're kissing, not just a poor judgment call you've made because you're intoxicated."

He blinks. "I know who you are. I certainly didn't intend to kiss Aveline."

A surprised laugh broke free of her, failing to reassure Fenris. Her vivid blue eyes bore into his, that kind expression he at once longed for and feared. "I know a first kiss can't be perfect, and I know it is childish to say, but I suppose I always wanted it to take place somewhere private, away from prying eyes and whispering lips. Maybe in the rain, or in front of your fireplace." Her arms wrapped around her torso and she hugged herself, her cheeks coloring as a wistful expression filled her gaze.

Fenris shuffled his feet, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, and watched her face as she spoke, incapable of looking away from her. After she fell silent he just stood before her, aware of the guards disappearing back to their posts or into the tavern, of Aveline passing them by with a brief glance and a small smile, Guardsman Donnic a step behind her. For all that the world moved around them, Fenris felt as if he and Hawke were halted in their own space.

"Do you require assistance getting home?" he asked her, before wishing he had thought of a cleverer way to make his request.

She smiled, that slow blooming of her lips that remained gentle and tender, the smile he craved. "I would not mind the company," she answered, motioning to the street that led back to Hightown.

Fenris fell in step beside her, unable to think of what he should say. The silence between them stretched all the way to the bridge, and it was Hawke, not him, who broke it.

"Now that Aveline took care of Isabela for us, we can enlist Varric's help in getting rid of that bloody awful story before anyone else hears it," she said.

He nodded, feeling his stomach knot again. "Do you think the dwarf will aid us in destroying a precious story?" he asked. Of course Varric would want to include the story in all of his epic tales of Hawke. What better than some filth to draw in the lowlifes that haunted the Hanged Man?

But she shook her head. "No. It would… de-romanticize me as a heroine, I think," she replied. "He'll drag it out as long as he can, to ensure that in the retelling my virtue was preserved until I found a man truly worthy of it."

Fenris swallowed. He wanted to ask her if she thought him worthy, but still felt the tumultuous doubts swirling and feared her answer. They walked through the empty market and turned toward the Estates, quiet once again. Neither made any sound as they walked, their movements the whispers of ships passing in the night.

When they reached the front of her manor they paused and she stared at him for a long moment. "I have found someone worthy. Perhaps not tonight, but maybe someday," she said to him, meeting his gaze with steady blue eyes.

His heart wrenched and he felt his brows contract. "Who?" he demanded, unable to hide his anger at the idea of her being with someone else.

She shook her head, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "You already know the answer to that," she replied, turning and walking up the path to her mansion. He stared, watching her slow steps, as she turned to glance at him over her shoulder before disappearing through the door.

Fenris walked all the way back to his mansion before he realized she had been talking about him. At once he forgot to be angry with her for using magic on him. For the first time in memory, he fell asleep with a smile on his face.

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><p>The door banged open and he thrashed out of his bed, grabbing his sword and hovering in a corner, waiting to see the intruder. Plate metal clanked through the hallway and he heard a familiar Fereldan voice call his name.<p>

"Fenris, I know you're in here," Aveline called. "I'm bloody tired so none of your shit today." She entered the room just as he lowered his sword and slammed a scroll onto the desk.

"What is that?" he asked, raising his brows toward the parchment, still clutched in her metal gauntlet.

The guardswoman sighed. "An order to search. There have been too many complaints in the neighborhood. You need to disappear for a while," she answered. Fenris felt his heart sinking through the floor. Hawke had just told him that she might share his feeling for her.

"Where am I to go?" he responded, unable to hide the sullen note in his voice.

Her lips compressed into a tight line. "I've found you a spot as a hired blade for Arl Eamon as he journeys from Kirkwall to Redcliffe," she answered. "You'll be paid well and you'll be gone for a few months."

"Must I go? Can't you simply… rearrange your patrols?" he asked. It was a request he made too often and he knew it.

Aveline confirmed his fears when she folded her arms and said, "I know you don't want to leave, but it's for the best. There's no other way."

"And if Hawke requires me?" he said. He couldn't help himself; if anyone might understand his predicament, it was the Captain of the Guard.

She bowed her head as if in understanding and Fenris felt a surge of gratitude for her competence and wisdom. He had no reason not to trust Aveline, but he prayed she didn't intend to separate him from Hawke in any permanent fashion. "Go say good-bye, then. But be quick about it."

Fenris darted to gather his meager belongings and hurried toward the Amell Estate.

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><p><strong>Sorry! But you know it's not supposed to be <em>too<em> easy.** But Act II comes next, and everyone knows what that means. ;-) Will update as much as possible around my finals.


	7. Fears and Furies

**A/N:** You have every right to hate me after reading this.

Warnings: language, drinking, some sexiness and crudeness, mentions of some Carver x Isabela, which I think is an oddly cute couple.

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><p>Hawke downed the last of her ale, her head feeling heavy on her neck, and propped her chin in her hand as she stared across the table at Isabela.<p>

"So have you talked to him at all?" the pirate asked, kicking an idle foot onto the nearest empty chair. Her cunning amber eyes settled on Hawke and to her credit, Isabela was valiant in her effort not to smirk, though she failed in the end.

After he returned from his mercenary work in Redcliffe, Fenris seemed distant, even to Hawke. Not that he avoided her, but he didn't seek her out like he once had. He accompanied her on her various quests and jobs, even reminded her to bring him along when she dealt with the Qunari, but she felt as if he hadn't come back, or as if he had left some vital part of himself in Fereldan.

"No, I haven't talked to him," she mumbled, looking away from her friend to study the tabletop.

Night after night she replayed the morning he left, the way he burst into her mansion and scared Bodahn and Sandal half to death, charging up the stairs into her bedroom. She remembered how he stared at her, brushing sleep-tousled hair from the side of her face and leaning forward for just a second to touch his lips to hers. And she cursed herself again and again for not leaning into it, for being too startled and confused and half-conscious to respond.

Isabela smacked the table with an open palm, drawing Hawke's attention back to her. "If you don't talk to him tonight, I'm going to go and talk to him," she announced. Her eyes glittered with whiskey and deviousness. "He's too handsome to be alone in that mansion all night."

She'd found a tome of Tarahone's a few weeks earlier and, while no one was watching, had slipped the small book into the pouch of potions at her side. She didn't dare look at it, but since Fenris had returned, she found herself thinking more and more about Bethany's death and Carver joining the Templars. For some reason having the tome comforted her, though it was a pale comparison to the man she wanted to be there. It was dangerous and powerful, though, and she opened her desk each night to stare at it, never touching it, just as she had with the elf before he left.

Hawke gripped the table and realized that smoke rose from where her fingers dug into the wood. She scowled, reigning in her angry energy, and narrowed her eyes at the pirate. "Don't even think about it," she growled, surprised to hear the jealousy in her tone. A moment later she felt her cheeks burn as Isabela's expression turned from teasing seductress to cat with the canary.

"You know that your elf stole the dirtiest pages of my story, right?" the pirate laughed and drained her glass just as Varric joined them.

Before Hawke could attempt to change the subject by asking him how his meeting with the Merchants' Guild went, the dwarf chuckled and said, "You still haven't told her?"

Her blood ran cold and she glared at each of the rogues in turn. "Does everyone know about this?" she demanded, her mind awhirl with questions. Why would Fenris have taken those pages? What did he do with them? What did it mean that he had stolen Isabela's sordid story?

"No," answered Isabela without hesitation. The waitress brought everyone a new round and the pirate sipped hers before continuing. "Varric knows because I went to him first, looking for the missing bits. Thought he was stealing my intellectual property."

Varric snorted. "Hawke's _real_ romance is much better," his voice took on the narrator's tone he used when drawing in an audience. "Gripping, compelling, forever teasing us with the question: will they end up together, or are they going to circle each other forever, agonizing with their unrecognized love until the end of time?"

Damn his keen observation. Hawke sniffed, trying to sound dainty and offended, but even to her own ears she sounded like she was trying not to cry.

Isabela sighed and reached out to pat Hawke's hand. "Don't worry, sweet thing, we're trying to help you two stubborn mules to stop butting heads and just hump already," she said, her skin as warm as if the sun and sea lived just beneath the surface. "And I mean that in the most romantic, sincerest possible way," she added without smirking.

Hawke wished it wasn't so comforting, but the pirate had proven to be a decent friend, almost fervent in her determination to win forgiveness for the story incident. This was the first Isabela had spoken of it since leaving the brig with a two-page letter of apology scratched on chamber-pot paper. Hawke still had it in her desk as a trophy, and she had longed to show Fenris since he returned but had yet to gather the courage.

"You do love to try my patience," Hawke managed a smile and squeezed the warm Rivaini fingers for a second before relinquishing them in favor of her ale.

"Look at it this way, Hawke," Varric piped up from where he'd shed all the trappings of his meeting—the satchel full of scrolls and house seals and everything he hated—and downed half his pint. "One of you has to do something. Either you or him, and we picked you."

"Maker, I hate you, dwarf," she muttered, echoing one of Carver's favorite phrases. Thinking of her brother reminded her of how Fenris had remained stoic when she most needed his support, and her eyes ached. She sighed, shook her head, and took a gulp of ale, disappointed at her failed joke.

He'd been gone all day, since they hunted down and killed his former master's apprentice, an evil witch by the name of Hadriana. When she tried to talk to him about it he shook her off and snarled that he needed to be alone, after which he disappeared. Hawke's fruitless search for him through Kirkwall and the surrounding paths had ended at the Hanged Man. She was too depressed to return home just yet, and the combination of cheap ale and her friends' humor had remedied her sorrow in the past.

"Like I said, I'll go talk to him for you," Isabela offered. Her brows rose and she gestured to encompass her scanty clothing and prominent cleavage as she continued, "I won't pretend I wouldn't do it if I could, but he won't even look at me. He only has eyes for you, love."

"Like I said," Varric smirked, sipping his ale, "Epic love story."

Her cheeks flamed as she looked at her friend, wondering how any man could resist Isabela's particular set of charms. The idea that Fenris cared for her enough to avoid any other women, even one as willing as the pirate, made her stomach and chest warm. Maybe the ale had gone to her head.

"Isabela," she sighed, wishing that the pirate didn't make so much sense in her ale-addled state, "I've been looking for him all day. I tried stopping at his house when I got back from those awful holding caves. It was the first place I looked."

The Rivaini leaned forward, an eager grin on her face, displaying cleavage that made several other patrons turn and stare at her. "Want me to check the Rose?"

Hawke sputtered. "No! Maker, if he's gone to the Rose," she murmured, head spinning and heart pounding. She didn't want to think of it. She lurched to her feet, ale forgotten. "I have to go find him," she said.

Varric and Isabela exchanged glances. "You need to get some sleep. You're tipsy and if he isn't at his house, you're not going to find him in this state," the dwarf announced. He heaved a long-suffering sigh and stood up, slinging Bianca onto his back. "Come on. I'll walk you home."

After a moment, Hawke stood and followed him outside. Varric glanced up at her with a sympathetic smile as she turned to shut the door with more care than necessary, something she had a tendency to do when she had a bit more alcohol than she'd meant to and didn't want to reveal her state.

"You don't think he's at the whorehouse, do you?" she asked as they crossed the darkened Bazaar.

The dwarf shook his head and motioned for her to cross the bridge ahead of him. "After you, mi'lady," he said, giving a stubby bow with all the flares of Orzamar. "No, the elf wouldn't go to the Blooming Rose. If that was all he wanted, Isabela's offered and he refused. Why pay for something you can have free?"

"Perhaps because he doesn't want all of Kirkwall to hear every detail of his activity in the morning," she answered, not meaning to sound so snippy. Isabela wasn't so bad. Of late she hadn't seen the pirate flirt with anyone.

Varric scoffed as they crested the steps to Hightown's market. "Isabela knows how to keep her mouth shut when she needs to, believe me," he grinned up at her and Hawke registered the glint of an impending revelation in his eyes despite the dim. "You didn't know about her correspondence with Carver, did you?"

Hawke tripped on the hem of her robes and caught herself against a covered stall, making it rattle. "Isabela and… my brother?" she choked, trying to imagine it and shuddering when the task proved too easy. She'd heard the pirate tease Carver too many times before he left for his Templar training _not_ to believe it.

Maker, what would Mother say? Hawke couldn't tell their mother that her youngest was sleeping with the infamous pirate wench who'd carved certain body parts on the stairwell. Leandra had enough doubts about Hawke's friends already without hearing that Isabela had seduced her son.

"Don't tell her you heard it from me," he added, lowering his voice to a whisper, "But she's terrified that you'll find out and be furious. She's been trying to convince him to come visit you and your mother, but he's a headstrong bastard."

"That he is," she muttered. If anyone could sneak into the Gallows at night and get past all the Templars, it would have to be Isabela. Still, it hurt that her friend hadn't said anything, and worse because Carver never wrote or visited. In three years, aside from the awkward day when he pretended she wasn't there, she'd received one letter that didn't even fill a page.

"I think they're good for each other," Varric commented, watching Hawke from the corner of his eye. "She's too comfortable to let his temper get to her and he's too stubborn to let her manipulate him."

They stepped around the corner to her estate, the path strewn with damp petals from the flowering trees lining it. She saw the lean dark silhouette in her doorway, white hair shining like the moon on his bowed head. Her gaze slid from the elf waiting for her to the dwarf who had walked her home.

"Thank you, Varric. For the company and for the information about Carver," she said, giving him a smile. She reached out and squeezed his thick, calloused hand.

Varric smiled at her, eyes glittering as they darted from Fenris, standing like a statue, to her, blushing like a schoolgirl. He kissed her knuckles with a flourish that any Orlesian would envy and murmured, "Now forget about everyone else's romantic entanglements and go entangle yourself with that broody elf." He winked at her and backed away, melting into the shadows.

The walk along her path took forever. She forced herself to shut the gate with care rather than to slam it, and watched as the white head shifted and green eyes glittered through the night, illuminated by the faint glow of his lyrium tattoos. Every slow step ached as she suppressed the urge to run into his arms and her nervous energy set up a breeze through the trees, raining petals down onto her robe and hair.

Hawke led him through her house and into her bedchamber, dizzy as he followed without comment. She couldn't remember his exact words because as he spoke her heart pounded with relief even as it broke for the horrors he'd faced. He paced in front of the fireplace in her bedroom, where Bodahn had lit a roaring blaze despite the spring's impending warmth.

"Are you going to look for the sister she spoke of?" she asked, trying to push his mind toward the good that might come of all this.

It had the opposite effect. "Of course not," he snarled, pacing close to her and glaring in such a way that she felt as if he had somehow grown taller in the last few seconds, or she shorter. "It must be a trap. Danarius must have sent her to tell me that so he might recapture me."

Lightheaded from her ale and his closeness, she said, "I will go with you. I'll help you look for her and together we can kill him once and for all."

"No." His eyes flickered over her face before he turned away. One of her hands reached to grasp at his arm, her fingers finding their way to his skin between left bare by his gauntlets. It felt like electricity, like lightning passing between her fingers and the lyrium bands and she realized in that moment that for all their closeness, for that half-kiss and those brief brushes of hands across hair or cheeks, they had never really touched one another. Not without clothing or armor or gloves in the way.

That single second was all the eternity that he needed to spin back and slam her against the wall, startling her with the sudden violence, his eyes flashing as they met hers. For a second they stared at each other and then the pressure on her shoulders decreased and he released her with shame in his eyes, about to apologize. She felt a smile form on her face as she stepped forward and pressed her mouth to his. She grasped his face in her palms, reveling in the coolness of his skin, the roughness of his lips and the faint stubble on his cheeks, the heat of his tongue as he kissed her back.

The wall bumped against her back again and she felt his hands gripping her hips, pulling her close against him so she could feel the hardness pressing against her thigh as he drew her leg around his waist. Heat filled her, need for him, and she broke her mouth apart from his to trail it over his neck, up to his earlobe, gratified by the growl he uttered and the twitch of his manhood through their clothes.

Fenris lifted her, securing her legs around his hips so that she had to pull her robes over her knees. One of his hands grasped her backside and the other dug into the underside of her thigh, the clawed tips of his gauntlets drawing blood from his desperation and desire. He held her up with his hips and the wall and one hand, kisses growing frantic as he trailed his lips for her mouth to her throat to her collarbone.

Everything happened so fast that Hawke reeled. One moment he was kissing her, his free hand pulling at the neckline of her robe, and as she fumbled with the straps of his armor he jumped back. He moved so fast that she fell to the ground, not expecting the sudden absence of his body against hers.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as she caught her breath, feeling the heat pooling on her face and between her legs. "I am no better than a beast. I am not worthy of a noblewoman."

Hawke got to her feet, straightening her robes and attempting to smooth her hair in a final attempt to regain her dignity. "I'm not a noblewoman. I wasn't raised to strut and preen and swoon and I never will," she answered, her frustration seeping through in her tone. She crossed her arms over her chest and met his intent stare with narrowed eyes. "Why kiss me like that, Fenris? Why rouse me so when you mean only to leave me unfulfilled and shame me for my desires, desires _you_ provoked?"

He stormed forward, grabbing her hair in his hand and twisting it until it hurt, until she cried out against his bruising lips and he softened his grip, but not the kiss. Instead of pressing her to the wall he wrapped her in his arms and held her too tight to escape, his lips and tongue insistent against hers, demanding and taking as he pleased.

When he pulled back they both breathed hard, staring with glittering eyes at each other. The heat and fury of his gaze faded to sorrow as he looked at her. His thumb traced her lower lip and she felt a stinging where he touched her.

"See what I've done to you," he said, lifting his hand to show her the red drop of blood clinging to his skin.

"I don't mind," she answered, raising her chin with defiance in her eyes and shoulders. "It is a part of you and I want it as much as any other part of you."

But he stepped back, shaking his head. "I mind, Marian," he whispered, using her first name. No one called her by that anymore, not even her mother. The sadness and shame in his stare broke her heart as he opened the door of her bedroom. His eyes met hers before he stepped out. "I cannot cause you harm like that. I would sooner die than hurt you."

"You're hurting me now by leaving," she replied. She didn't wait to see his reaction, whirling away from the image of him standing in the door, about to leave.

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><p>"You looked like a bride as you walked toward me that night," Fenris says, running his fingers through her hair. The tenderness in his eyes makes Marian's heart pound and her lips curve to match his as his hand shifts to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing her smile. His voice grows deeper, husky as he adds, "I would not be opposed to seeing you like that again."<p>

"What, sitting on the floor wanting you and furious that I couldn't have you?" she asks, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He chuckles and shakes his head. "No, I mean I wish we could be wed," he answers, drawing her close for a long kiss and pulling the sheets over their heads.

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><p><strong>How many people forgot about the frame story? Hahaha, yeah, it might actually turn into a prequel for my DA3 prediction fic.<strong>


	8. Rooftop

Sorry it took so long to update! I've gotten wrapped up in my other fic, _Paradigm Stew_, because it's fun to mess with the canon on a massive scale. But again, this doesn't follow canon (even if it's a lot closer) and at long last, we get to see some other characters' POVs regarding Fenris and Hawke's relationship.

**_Warnings_: **angst, sex (nothing graphic, sorry!), alcohol, and the inevitable awkwardness of 'The Long Road.'

**Extra Disclaimer**: I do not own _Dune_ or the Litany of Fear. I just use it on carnival rides. But Fenris' real name is a _Dune_ reference.

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><p>Varric could tell from twenty feet away that the slump of Fenris' shoulders wasn't his usual brooding slouch when the elf entered the Hanged Man. He looked defeated, tired, his white hair messier than usual. As Varric watched from the top of the stairs, Fenris managed to run his gauntleted hand through his hair with an irritable jerk three times before he even ordered his customary bottle of wine. That explained the hair.<p>

"Hey, Broody," Varric called, motioning the elf over before Isabela could prowl onto him. She had that glint in her eye of too much whiskey and a bad day.

Fenris wasted no time following the dwarf to his suite, flopping into one of the chairs with a sigh. Varric turned to stare at him, arranging his duster around himself as he settled into his favorite seat, the armchair with the cushions that he shipped in special from the Tethras Manor. He waited until every fold of his beloved jacket hung just so, letting the elf stew over his wine, before lifting his mug of ale to his lips and slurping loudly.

"So what brings you here tonight?" Varric asked, raising his eyebrows. He knew the answer, of course, but he didn't win every game of Wicked Grace by flashing his cards early. Instead he pointed out the obvious. "You've been pretty scarce these days."

"I came here to drink, dwarf," growled Fenris. "Why must you always pry?"

"Surely you have access to better wine in Hightown," pointed out the dwarf, enjoying another sip of warm, flat ale. "Not to mention a larger, less smelly place to get drunk. So why are you here, instead of, say, at home?"

The elf's green eyes narrowed and his lip curled in that telltale sneer. By the Stone, if Fenris were so inclined, he could have every woman from here to Hightown just by sneering. Too bad for Isabela that he only wanted the one. He took a long sip of wine, managing to make even that action seem violent. "I came here to escape Hightown," he snarled. "I could not endure another minute."

Varric nodded. The heart of the matter. "What is it this time?" he asked, leaning forward on his elbows. He liked nothing better than a juicy story of Hightown drama, and no one provided them with such consistency and venom as Fenris.

"It's _her,_" grumbled the elf, taking another hostile gulp of wine. How anyone can manage to make drinking look so dangerous and scary is beyond Varric, and he wouldn't believe it if he weren't witnessing it.

"Well, of course it's her," Varric chuckled. "You're always extra-broody after an encounter with Hawke."

The bottle of wine clanged against the tabletop with enough force that the dwarf blinked, waiting for the glass to shatter. "I do not brood," Fenris growled. Perhaps his grip was so tight he was actually holding the bottle together.

"Friend, if your brooding were any more impressive, women would swoon as you walked by. They'd have broody babies in your honor," Varric answered, laughing and shaking his head. "Of course, what good is a swarm of swooning women when the one you want is just down the steps from you?"

"Why do you not get beaten more regularly?"

The dwarf responded with a broad smile. "I'm just too handsome and charming," he replied. He swigged his ale and waved a hand. "And I give _great_ advice to broody elves who are trying to woo mages."

Spiky shoulders slumped further down and Fenris hung his head. "It is too late. I lost out on my chance to be with her long ago," he muttered. He took a long, slow sip of wine and set the bottle down with a dejected scowl.

"What bullshit," Isabela announced from the doorway. With one accusing finger waving a wild arc in testament to her inebriation, the Rivaini stumbled into the room, ranting at Fenris. "You and Hawke have been through far too much to jus, jus _quit_ like that." It was clear she was too drunk to remain silent about her eavesdropping. Varric glanced up as the pirate slung her hips into the nearest chair, rocking it precariously back, and lunged out to steady it before she could tumble ass-over-tits.

"You do not know what you are talking about," snapped Fenris, one of his gauntlets digging tracks into the table's surface. Varric winced as he watched, wishing that Isabela had learned something of subtlety. Alas, it was not the pirate's strong suit, even when keeping secrets about her relic and reasons for being in Kirkwall- two things the dwarf has investigated with quiet vigor in the past few months, only to come up empty-handed time and again.

Isabela snorted and Varric shot her a look. She spoke anyway, oblivious or drunk or just ignoring him. "I know more than you think. I know you ran off after kissing her, instead of bedding her like you _should_ have done," she begins.

"Enough!" roared Fenris, getting to his feet and with his hands on the table as if he meant to flip it over.

Varric jumped up, too, before his suite could get trashed or violence could break out. "Okay, okay, let's calm down. Isabela, how about I help you off to bed?" he asked.

"Oh, Varric," she purred, flashing her amber eyes up at him from her seat, "I knew it! You;re jus _dying_ to sleep with me. And I'll _finally_ get to run my fingers through that lovely chest hair." She reached for his chest and he backed up a step.

"Easy, there, Rivaini," he chuckled, taking her hand and holding it away from his precious tawny chest-mane. He glanced over to where Fenris sat and saw that the elf had disappeared with his bottle. He sighed and looked back at Isabela. "Come on. Let's get you to bed."

* * *

><p>Aveline swung her shield to deflect the great swing of Fenris' sword, and her whole body shuddered with the impact. The elf was hitting hard today in their sparring practice, and she expected to have a few bruises where she'd let her guard down. He recovered, using the momentum of her deflection to whip his whole body around and come at her sword arm, forcing her to parry his ruthless blows.<p>

For several more minutes Aveline backed away from his constant onslaught, until she couldn't take any more. "All right, Fenris," she said, lowering her weapon. "Why don't we take a break and you can tell me what's going on."

He frowned at her and sheathed his blade. "What do you mean?" he demanded in that harsh, irritated tone. Of late it seemed to be the only way he spoke.

She crossed her arms and stared at him. "Is this about Hawke?" she asked, too blunt to withhold her knowledge or opinion. "You're very angry today and it's unsettling. I know you two have been out of sorts for the past few months, but you can't let yourself make mistakes. It could jeopardize all of us, especially Hawke, if you slipped."

Fenris took a step toward her, menacing with his green eyes and chiseled features twisted in a sneer. "I would never allow her to come to harm," he growled, his voice low. He paused then, lowering his gaze and his voice with a hint of soft regret. "That is why I left."

Aveline snorted and shook her head, leading him to the sidelines of the practice ring for water. "Have you spoken with her since?" she asked, passing him a canteen and sipping from her own.

He frowned and shook his head, and for a moment she thought he looked like a small boy caught in the midst of doing something he knew he shouldn't. She resisted the urge to chuckle, and it faded the moment he looked up and met her gaze again. "What do I tell her?" he spat, bitterness overwhelming his words. He spun away and stalked along the length of the courtyard. "Shall I tell her that I was too cowardly to stay with her? That I do not know how to love, or how to treat her with the care that she deserves?"

"It's a start," she answered. "At least you're admitting that you love her and care for her."

"What do I know of love, except that I cannot offer her anything?" he returned, staring at her with a mix of fury and terror in his eyes. He gestured with one hand, fingers curled with self-loathing, to encompass himself. "I hate this. I hate that I wake up from my dreams to realize that she is not there with me, hate that I think of her every moment that I am awake. I hate that I am not good enough, that she will doubtless marry a nobleman with wealth and a title, who can care for her and look after her as I never could. And I hate that the thought of it makes me sick, that I want to run over there even now and confess it to her, to demand that she turn away her suitors because I want to have her all to myself."

She took another sip of water and wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. It seemed so simple, yet she knew how complicated such things were. Her eyes darted around the practice ring to ensure no other guards were there. "You'd be happier if you did that," she said. "And you'd be doing her a favor to charge off and frighten all those blue-blooded vultures away from her."

He hung his head again. "I cannot," he murmured, his voice so quiet she had to strain to hear it.

Aveline opened her mouth to reply, to ask him why he couldn't, when a startled exclamation of "Captain!" made her turn around. Guardsman Donnic and Guardsman Brennan stood there in practice armor with padded weapons, brows raised as they looked from her to her tattooed companion.

"Guardsmen," she said, startled. She bit her lip; in the leather practice armor she could see Donnic's muscled form without plate-metal interference and her heart picked up speed. "The field is yours. Come on, Fenris, our time is up." She motioned to the elf and made a hasty retreat from the practice yard, unable to look either of her guards in the eye. Fenris followed, glancing back once as they turned the corner out of sight of the courtyard. His brows rose but he made no comment. At least he didn't ask nosy questions like Varric, or make up wild stories the way Isabela did.

"Thank you for your time," Fenris said, inclining his head. "I will see you tomorrow."

"Wait," she said, lifting a hand to stop him before he could run off. She glanced back in the direction of the yard, though it was out of sight. "I was wondering if you would go ask Hawke to come talk to me later. I have... a favor I need from her."

He raised his brows. "What do you mean?" he asked.

An idea took shape in her head. If she could perhaps lead by example, demonstrating to Fenris how difficult it was to take such a step but how rewarding it might be to do so, then she might be able to help him and Hawke. "Just ask her to stop by this afternoon. I'll be in the barracks." And before he could protest, she hurried off to wash up and get to her office.

* * *

><p>Fenris scowled as the final beacon flared to life, daring a sidelong glance at Hawke. She slid her staff back in place on her shoulders, craning her long neck to look down the path as Aveline and her guardsman approached. He couldn't help staring at her neck, at the pale skin he once bruised with rough kisses and teeth. Each time he saw her, he found himself lost in agonizing memories and fantasies of what might have been, trembling with desire and rage because he could not have her.<p>

"I have never seen Aveline act so... indecisive," Hawke sighed, choosing her description with her usual care and caution. She ran a hand over her dark hair, setting it into flattering disarray. Fenris looked away.

Beside her, Varric shrugged. "Remind you of anyone?" he asked. Fenris clenched his fists, glaring at the dwarf with sudden force. Varric chuckled at his reaction and it made Fenris want to tear that infernal smirk from his broad, beardless face.

Hawke looked down at the dwarf, her eyes skipping Fenris entirely. He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed, but knew that the twisting sensation in his chest came more from the latter. "Not every accidental encounter is the beginning of an epic love story, Varric," she said, her voice quiet and sad. This time her eyes did flick to Fenris and he caught his breath, unable to look away from the brilliant blue of her eyes. "Sometimes caution is better than the alternative."

Anders, quiet until now, huffed and crossed his arms. "If you never take a risk, you'll spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been, killing yourself with regrets and questions," he announced, staring at Hawke with intent and intensity that set Fenris' teeth on edge. If that abomination dared to lay one of his filthy hands on her, Fenris would rip his beating heart from his chest and stomp on it until it popped.

To his horror, she gave the other mage a fond smile. "We can't all be as brave as you are, Anders," she answered. "Not everyone has the courage to lead a revolution under the Templars' noses. Some of us are afraid even to say what's on our mind." Again, her gaze flicked over to Fenris and he found his hands clenching into fists in an effort to maintain his customary stoicism. He had never had a problem sharing his opinions and he was not _afraid_ to be with her. On the contrary, he knew it would be easy, that all he needed to do was to seize her shoulders and kiss her again. It was a measure of his bravery that he chose not to, that he instead held back his bestial nature to prevent the inevitable pain he would cause.

"Fear is the mind-killer," Fenris quoted. He didn't know why the words of the old secret litany popped into his head at that moment, but it seemed appropriate. The others stared at him in shock. Hawke's eyebrows threatened to disappear under her dark bangs, while Anders' nose wrinkled and Varric smirked.

Before anyone could speak, Aveline and Donnic came to a halt by the beacon. "Hawke," the redhead said, her green eyes wide and an expression of dread filling her features, "What are you doing here?"

Hawke took a breath, meeting her friend's eyes with a gentle gaze of her own. "Aveline..." she said, a note of pleading and warning in the name. 'You know why I'm here."

Donnic frowned and looked around their group, at the lit beacon, and then to the guard captain. "What's going on here?" he asked, confused as he added up the obvious pieces.

"She wants you," Fenris grumbled. He looked between the guards as Aveline's face turned red. "It is pathetic." He paused when Hawke's shocked, hurt eyes sought his face and added, "But admirable.

He knew he shouldn't have interfered like that in their business the moment Donnic made an awkward and hasty exit, more so when Aveline began to yell at Hawke and him. Finally they wound back down the Wounded Coast path and heading toward the city. Fenris saw the knot of tension between Hawke's shoulders and noticed how, even as Varric and Anders parted ways near the Hanged Man, she would not look at him. They walked up to Hightown in silence until they reached the base of the stairs to the Viscount's Keep. She halted and turned to face him, brows drawn in a frown and blue eyes flashing at his face.

"Why?" she asked, and he saw the set of her jaw. He knew she had a thousand whys stored up, a million reasons to ask him and demand an explanation, and he felt his pulse race as she stared at him with that cool accusation and hot anger warring through her gaze.

He shook his head, helpless. "This is neither the place nor the time," he said, daring to meet her eyes.

Hawke narrowed her eyes and turned on her heel, marching up to the Keep with sharp steps. Fenris watched her ascent, feeling as if he had just lost out on something but unable to define just what it was. After a moment, he steeled himself and followed her.

* * *

><p>Fenris could climb from his balcony, across the eaves of his mansion, right onto the roof of the Amell Estate. While he'd known this for some time, he'd never used the route, feeling that it would be intrusive to drop in through her window unannounced. After the happy ending to Aveline and Donnic's mess, though, he felt he needed to say something. Hawke had hurried from the Keep and disappeared before he could attempt to speak to her. He had no idea what he meant to say now, but the route he'd been aware of for so long now disappeared under his feet. Too soon, he crouched over the lighted bedroom window like a gargoyle, debating whether or not to brave her wrath.<p>

Before he could lose his nerve and run away, however, she leaned head and shoulders through the window, twisting to look up. "Of course it's you," she murmured, disappearing for a moment. He hesitated, wondering if she wanted him to come in or just to leave, and then she reappeared, climbing through the window in a surprising show of agility. He took her hand as she gripped the ledge above her window and hauled her up in a swift motion.

"Hawke," he said. He realized he was still holding onto her hand and let go, heat flooding his cheeks. "I came to apologize."

"What have you come to apologize for?" She folded her arms, the hand he'd touched curling into a fist in the crook of her elbow.

"I..." he started, and halted when he realized he still didn't know what to say. She deserved an explanation, or a confession. She deserved a better man than him. Ashamed, he met her eyes. "I cannot be what you want me to be."

"Why would I want you to be any other way than you are?" she asked. Her blue eyes narrowed on his face and he felt the wind pick up, though he couldn't be sure if it was her doing or not. "If I wanted some fop suitor, I have dozens. But I want a man too proud to bow to any other, a man too strong to allow even the torment of slavery to break his spirit. I want a fighter, Fenris. You would know that if you had ever bothered to ask." She took a step toward him, invading his personal space until her chest brushed his. Dressed only in a loose shirt, without his armor between them, he felt the soft flesh of her body too well and took a sharp breath.

Fenris stared in her blue eyes, his hands at his sides itching to seize her by the waist and haul her close, his muscles tense with anticipation. "I will only disappoint you," he whispered, lifting a hand to touch her cheek.

She tilted her head against his palm, closing her eyes for a moment. He thought he could see a sparkle of tears, but she took a shivering breath and blinked them away. "If that's what you prefer," she said, her voice so quiet even his keen ears strained to hear it. In spite of his hand tilting her face toward his, she refused to meet his eyes as she spoke. "I won't impose myself where I'm not wanted."

It broke his heart to see the mighty Hawke like this, frightened and tearful but so brave as she tried to hold it back. He realized as he looked at her that she meant to protect him, that these soft words were meant to absolve him of his sins against her. And just like that, his willpower shattered and he drew her against him, kissing her. Unlike the fury he'd inflicted after Hadriana, this kiss held promise. Not to say that it was gentle, but his lips were softer on hers, his tongue requesting entrance to her mouth rather than forcing it. His fingers threaded into her hair as her arms circled his neck, his other hand gripping her waist as if to prevent her from escaping him.

Hawke made a soft noise into his mouth, her hands now tangled in the fabric of his shirt, and as they continued kissing, Fenris knew he couldn't stop this time. With a growl, he tore her robe apart and drew her to the ground with him.


End file.
